Without the energy, Iron Man only muttered, "What the hell is wrong with you?" as Wanda collapsed to the floor, wondering bitterly (the best he could do as he reached for panic at the sight of her and fell dramatically short; it was like being drunk, he realized, almost exactly) if this was some ongoing punishment for not asking her to help him. That couldn't be it, Tony knew that profoundly, but for a second if felt like she was going out of her way to ruin a longed for respite when she had more will and power in her than Tony would ever know to start fixing this instead. He still glared at her back until the new thing was on its feet and was shuffling toward her, its mouth an open pit like it was the one screaming. And it could have been; there was no sound in the Iron Man, now, just Tony's ragged breathing as he sealed out all unnecessary sensation. He needed the focus to jog toward them, not wasting time now submitting to tests of worth or purity or any other fucking thing he was bound to disappoint in when he could launch into the air to come down hard with a punch aimed at the dried up old bastard's rotten face.
In a flash of green, Iron Man's fist glanced off of nothing feet from its target and he was flung from the conflict; across the room, wrapping around then shattering an ornate column painted with a parade of the dead and the gold sun looking down on them complacently, crashing down onto a table already grossly overburdened and cracking easily under the Iron Man's weight. While the dust cleared and the fruit and dishes settled like cymbals dancing on the stone, the old sorcerer raised a hand to Wanda to grip her face and press his shriveled thumb into her bulging eye.